


Two Satellites, Not Alone

by Matriaya



Category: All Elite Wrestling
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, chuck can't handle his shit, trent writes poems
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26271211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matriaya/pseuds/Matriaya
Summary: “Are they about me?”“Is what about you, asshole?”“Your poems.”It’s not that Chunk thinks they are, necessarily, it’s just that he’s become obsessed with the notion. That this strange beauty Trent has been harboring might, in fact, be about him, and it does things to his insides he doesn’t know how to read.Or; the one in which Trent secretly writes poetry
Relationships: Trent Barreta/Chuck Taylor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 55





	Two Satellites, Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks go out to:  
> [Emill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emill/pseuds/Emill) for encouraging me down this rabbit hole  
> [ElleyOtter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleyOtter/pseuds/ElleyOtter) for being my lovely beta reader (and soulmate)  
> [Love Leah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoveLeah/pseuds/LoveLeah) for reminding me that poetry is still a beautiful way to express yearning
> 
> The title is from Indestructible by Robyn  
> Also, I haven't written poetry since high school guys so be gentle in your assessment.

Trent always keeps his notebook with him.

Always.

Chuck has never seen the inside.

He’s tried, oh yes, gone to extraordinary lengths even to see the inside of Trent’s weird little notebook, but it’s either on his person or hidden so obscurely that Chuck never manages to get his hands on it. 

_ i press into your mouth _

_ the secrets that i can’t speak _

_ keep them safe there for me _

_ until i find the courage to  _

_ claim them. _

It’s small, plain, unassuming. Battered, from being pulled out of pockets too many times, crinkled at the corners, full of the kind of secrets Chuck wants desperately to know.

Trent is his best friend. His ride or die. His person. What could possibly be in those pages that is so secret that Chuck can’t see? 

It becomes a sticking point between them, though not one that Chuck ever brings up out loud. He just makes a point to glare at Trent anytime he catches him scribbling away at it. 

For a while he asked. Every time. And every time Trent got defensive and closed off, so now Chuck sticks to his old stare and glare routine, which Trent then ignores.

Chuck honestly never expects to get his shot at the notebook. Like, he’s written it off as a lost cause at this point. One of those great mysteries that will never be known, like Bigfoot’s actual location, or what the fuck happens in the Bermuda Triangle. 

And it’s a private thing. He gets that. Really, he does. It’s just that, well, okay, curiosity has always been that slippery bitch that gets Chuck into trouble, and when an opportunity to settle his curiosity falls into his lap, Chuck has never been able to say no. Not once. Not even if it was something really stupid. 

_ it hurts. _

_ all of this daylight i have _

_ saved up for you.  _

_ tucked into my empty spaces _

_ to show your darkness _

_ how to breathe. _

It’s just that Trent  _ does _ leave the notebook once. Completely on accident. He is in the middle of scribbling across it’s pages, and Orange appears in the doorway, nails him in the face with a water gun, droplets flying everywhere and Trent acts on instinct. He bolts up with a shout that bleeds into a laugh, and is off down the hallway after Orange before he can remember the notebook now discarded on the couch.

Chuck’s on the cusp of following when he sees it, nestled against the worn leather, just small, and quiet. He knows he shouldn’t.  _ Knows _ it’s a horrible idea, and a huge invasion of privacy. Knows he will be the worst best friend in the whole world, and all of those thoughts swirl down the drain as he reaches forward and presses his fingertips against the cover.

It’s still warm from where Trent had cradled it. The pencil is a small stub, tiny against Trent’s huge sausage fingers, and Chuck briefly wonders how Trent can even hold such a small thing without snapping it in half. Then the notebook is in his hand, and he flips to a random page.

_ quiet. _

_ tell me how to keep these _

_ thoughts in my head _

_ keep them from spilling over _

_ into you _

_ tell me how to not _

_ want you like i do. _

_ teach me how to be alone. _

Chuck isn’t a words guy. Doesn’t really read much. Prefers watching tv, or being outside. Or kicking the shit out of people on the wrestling mat. 

He doesn’t really get books, or like why someone would want to sit down and read a whole book when they could be doing literally anything else.

But these words. These words. 

Fuck. 

He reads it all. Frantic. Thinks briefly about taking pictures with his phone because he doesn’t have enough time to really take in what he’s reading, really absorb it, but then he hears Orange’s shout from the hallway, and the thundering of elephant feet, and he drops it as if scalded, attempts to arrange himself into a semblance of normal resting human.

Orange and Trent come back into the room, both with water guns now, and unload both canisters onto him, which has him laughing hysterically, curled up into a ball to escape the onslaught. 

When he’s recovered, unfurled, reaching for a towel to dry himself off, the notebook is gone. 

The words stick in his craw. Or not the words, exactly, but the feeling of them, hot and soft and a little too much under his ribs. He wants to read them again, wants to trace the pencil marks with his fingers, wants to commit them to memory. He is pretty sure Trent doesn’t know he saw, which means his guard won’t be up any more than usual, which unfortunately is still a Fort Knox situation. But now Chuck has more than just curiosity driving him forward. 

And it fucks him up. Trent is - well, he’s Trent. His weirdo best friend who has his back in the ring, who he has spent countless hours getting drunk with, who can lay a man out with one punch, who fucking jacked off in their hotel room with Chuck just a few feet away. 

This strange lanky cryptid of a human doesn’t at all line up with the person who wrote those poems. And yet…

_ when they dig me up _

_ pull my bones from the dirt _

_ pry apart my ribs to see _

_ my beating heart _

_ they will only find _

_ you, thumping in its place _

Chuck takes to staring at Trent when he thinks he’s not looking, except Chuck isn’t very good at subtlety, or, in fact, stealth, so really, it’s just a lot of Trent pausing mid-whatever he’s doing to yell at Chuck for staring. Ask him why he’s being such a freak. Or more of a freak than usual.

The words vibrate hard against his heart, the friction of it making him too hot, too sweaty, too much in his own skin. Every time that notebook makes a reappearance, which it often does on flights, or when they’re winding down in the hotel room, Chuck gets a little light headed. 

The bar they choose to frequent in Jacksonville is gross, by any stretch of the imagination, the kind of place where shoes stick to the floor even when you walk, and nobody does a good job of cleaning up the used condoms in the bathrooms. It’s nasty as hell, and it feels like exactly the right place for Chuck to drink his feelings away. 

The day he discovered solace at the bottom of a glass was a life-changing one, for the better even, he thought, and he’s got a beer and a glass of top shelf whiskey to keep him company tonight, so things are looking up. Or down. Or they’re not looking anywhere, which is exactly what Chuck wants.

He traces the rim of his whiskey glass with a lazy finger, wonders idly if he could make it sing. He had a knack for that in his bartending days, a talent he still whips out every once in a while when he’s drunk and looking to impress someone. 

The beer is cheap, tastes only mildly better than it should, but mostly like piss and hops, and he downs it in one then gestures at the bartender for another. The whiskey he takes his time with. Closes his eyes, lets himself feel the smoke and cherry on his tongue. 

Everyone in this place is his mirror; sad sacks of humanity, drinking away their problems at three in the afternoon to the soundtrack of Led Zepplin on repeat. 

Chuck has a few hours until he has to be back at the arena to prep for the night’s show, and he should be there with Trent and Orange, figuring out their next BTE segment, but he can’t find the fucks in himself to actually care. He’ll show up when he’s needed, and the rest can lick his taint. 

He smells her before he sees her, the overwhelming waft of cheap perfume and a bit of body odor. Something curls in his stomach, digs in claws, and when she sits down next to him, he smiles.

“You’re too cute to be hanging out in a place like this.” she drawls, placing a hand on his bare bicep.

She’s older than him by a good fifteen years at least, has a beauty that is shaped by hidden lines and lots of make-up. 

“I could say the same,” he smiles back at her. It’s a stupid line, but he can’t bring himself to care. She is practically waving a giant fuck me flag in his face. He’s already in. The bartender gives him a small smirk as she takes his hand, leads him back to the men’s room, sets his new beer in front of his now-vacant spot with a small nod that is the universal sign for  _ I’ll watch your stuff. _

Her name is Cheyna. He won’t remember it fifteen minutes from now, but her mouth tastes like Jack and Coke, and weirdly like strawberries, but the fake kind, like strawberry bubble gum maybe. He thinks about locking the door, but the door doesn’t have a lock and she is aggressively on him the second the door shuts, latching her red-stained lips to his neck, immediately grabbing his dick through his jeans. He wishes he was half hard, already. He wishes the sight of her sliding slowly down his body made him stand to attention, but honestly it does very little. Still, her mouth feels good as it slides down his cock, and he leans his head back against the tiled wall, pushes his fingers into her blonde curls. 

_ you are a universe unto yourself _

_ every inch of skin a map _

_ my mouth can trace _

_ take you hard and hot _

_ over the edge _

_ into the fall _

Beats the fuck out of him why that one poem of Trent’s surfaces in his brain, drapes itself over the bathroom, tucks around it’s corners, but it makes Chuck hard, punches a staccato of wanting in his throat. Cheyna purrs around his cock at the obvious interest it’s showing, and Chuck forces his eyes open, forces himself to look at her blond hair, her feminine curves, at the frankly spectacular rack he now has a front seat to, because it means that she  _ isn’t _ Trent. She isn’t the man whose words…  _ affected him. _

Fuck. 

He grips the back of her head hard, bucks into her mouth, watches as a line of spit falls past her lips, but she’s still grinning up at him, moaning around him like it’s a competitive sport. He wishes like hell the blood pumping in his veins was so loud because of her. 

He doesn’t really remember the poem, not completely, just snatches of it that surface over and over, and fuck, he wants to let go, wants to fuck her face hard, wants to haul her up and bend her over and fuck into her and  _ not _ kiss her; close his eyes and lose himself.  __

She’s got her nails digging into the bare skin of his ass, bordering on painful, but feels really good, and he’s got his other hand gripping the cold radiator when the door bangs open, and Chuck has a micro-moment to wonder why they hadn’t taken their liaison into the stall. Then he’s looking into familiar brown eyes, and everything takes on a molasses consistency around him. Trent’s standing in the doorway, gripping the doorframe a little too hard, knuckles whitening, and Chuck watches as his face cycles through shock, and then embarrassment, and then settles into a mask of nonchalance. It all happens in a blink, but to Chuck’s panicked, silently screaming brain, he processes it in slow motion. He sees everything. 

And fuck, this isn’t the first time Trent’s accidentally walked in on him fucking around with someone, but it’s definitely the first time the sight of his best friend makes Chuck so painfully aroused he nearly blows his load right there. 

“Sorry man, uh…” Trent drops his gaze down to the floor, where Cheyna hasn’t bothered to pull off Chuck, just keeps sucking him off like they don’t have a spectator. If anything, she’s redoubling her efforts. “Cody sent me to find you. Emergency meeting.” 

Chuck tries to stumble over “cool, thanks, just one sec” but it comes out sliced to pieces. Maybe he should apologize. But for what? Not the weirdest thing their friendship has endured, not by a long shot. Then Trent looks up at him once more, just one hard glance before he shuts the door, and it pushes Chuck over the edge, coming hard down the back of Cheyna’s throat, his whole body bowing forward with the force of it. He doesn’t actually know if Trent watched him come, doesn’t want to know, just wants to die, a soft, quiet death here in the bathroom, press his face to the tiles, disappear. 

Cheyna gives a throaty laugh as she tucks him back into his pants, then pulls herself up.

“Sounds like you’ve got places to be, honey.” 

He should be grateful she isn’t expecting him to reciprocate, but instead he just feels like an asshole. 

She pats his cheek, gives him a lingering kiss, and then walks out and back into the dreary interior of the bar. 

Trent is waiting for him when he comes out. Doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Chuck makes a beeline for his whiskey and fresh beer, downs both in one, and slaps too much money on the bar with a “thanks, man” to the bartender. The bartender only grins at him, and nods as he pulls a pint for a very pleased looking Cheyna. 

Chuck’s unsteady as they make their way out of the bar into the humid afternoon, and he immediately regrets chasing the beer with the whiskey, stomach roiling in dissent, but it feels good to be lightheaded, to take that edge off. He’ll catch hell from Cody for it, but again, he can’t find the fucks to give.

_ hard , cold, taut, unforgiving _

_ taking the bumps, one blow _

_ At a time _

_ you make me hollow here _

_ in this shell of a home _

  
  


They’re laying on separate beds, ESPN on in the background, but as white noise. Trent is writing again, and Chuck swears he can hear the pencil scratch against paper, even over the space between them. 

“Are they about me?” 

The words trip from Chuck’s mouth before he’s even cognizant of their exit. 

Trent grins over at him, blissfully ignorant.

“Is what about you, asshole?” he asks, though his voice is soft. 

“Your poems.”

It’s not that Chunk thinks they are, necessarily, it’s just that he’s become obsessed with the notion. That this strange beauty Trent has been harboring might, in fact, be about him, and it does things to his insides he doesn’t know how to read.

The beats of silence that stretch between them follow their own timeline, and probably last for years. Chuck’s practically squirming in his spot, wishes the bed would open up and swallow him whole, like a horror film, but also he can’t look away from Trent, from the ice in his eyes when he realizes exactly what Chuck is saying. 

His fingers are a vice around the small notebook now, and there are pages trapped under his thumb that are in danger of ripping. 

“You read them?” 

Trent almost sounds detached when he says it, like he’s shouting up from the bottom of a well, but that could just be Chuck’s head spinning. 

Trent never looks pale, but now, now he sort of does, except for the flush that is creeping down his tanned skin, starting at his neck, spreading low over his chest, and for one moment, Chuck is legitly concerned he might pass out. Or combust. 

Trent opens his mouth, closes it again. The finger he’s pointed at Chuck is shaking, his whole damn body vibrates with anger. Chuck’s pretty sure he’s going to get punched now. For real.

“Fuck you, Chuck,” is all Trent says. Three words, low, but laced with so much hate Chuck flinches as if struck.

He storms out, still clutching the notebook, pencil abandoned on white sheets, and the air grows stale and sour with his leaving. 

Twenty minutes later, his phone dings.

_ Trentylocks: yeah, they’re about u _

_ Trentylocks: fuck u _

He doesn’t respond.

_ take me apart _

_ moment after moment _

_ down in the dirt and the dust _

_ together _

_ only you can see _

_ the damage i bleed _

Trent doesn’t speak to him at all over the next three days. 

People definitely notice. 

Orange notices first, but in true Orange fashion, he doesn’t say anything, just gives Chuck a longer than usual look over his mirrored aviators. 

Nick takes one look at the way Trent freezes Chuck out, but is overly friendly with everyone else to compensate, and immediately asks Chuck what the fuck he did to fuck everything up.

Marko spends a majority of the time watching silently, and then gives Chuck a hug, which almost makes him cry.

When they’re in the ring, it’s different. They’re putting on a show, just like they do every night, and Trent knows his lines, knows his moves, knows when to be where. If he lands a punch a little too hard once or twice, well, that was a fuckup. But the instant they’re through the tunnel, he shuts down again, throws up a wall the size of fucking Helms Deep. Chuck finds himself craving those moments in the ring when he can hug him, hold Trent’s hand, when things seem normal. 

It’s not like he doesn’t apologize. Of  _ course _ he does. Over and over. Loudly sometimes, shouting at Trent in hallways that echo, but none of it sinks in. None of it sticks. 

Cody doesn’t give them separate rooms, even though Chuck is pretty sure Trent asked them to. Three days of silence, and then Trent is waiting for him in their shared hotel room, and judging by the empty shot glass and whiskey bottle, he’s already a few shots in. 

Chuck is so surprised to see him lying on the bed he can’t keep the grin off his face. He was 100% sure Trent would hide with someone else, and to see his familiar face, relaxed from the booze, is a thing of beauty. 

Trent’s hair is loose, but pushed away from his face with a stupid pink headband that Chuck had loaned him a thousand years ago and completely forgot about. He opens his eyes when Chuck enters, swings his legs off the bed, stands up. 

Every once in a while it hits Chuck just how  _ big _ Trent is. He’s seen him almost every day for years, they’ve fought together side by side, he knows Trent’s body almost as well as his own, and yet it still makes him pause, just how broad Trent is, how big his hands are. It’s unnerving.

Even more unnerving now that Trent is stalking around the beds towards him. Chuck’s grin begins to slip, and he drops his bag, waiting for what he’s pretty sure will be a punch to the stomach. He doesn’t even try to block it, fucking deserves it. 

Trent pushes into his bubble, crowding right into him, and Chuck’s got moments to wonder, to worry, to be amazed, and then Trent grabs Chuck’s face in his hands, backs them both up until Chuck hits the hotel door.

And kisses him.

Or no, that’s not accurate.

He waits, a beat, then two, staring into Chuck’s eyes, a frown still etched on his face, assessing, silently calculating, and Chuck is helpless to do anything but stare back, to fucking lose himself in Trent’s gaze before Trent pushes their mouths together slowly. 

The first thing Chuck feels is panic. A clawing, angry dread that grabs him by the throat and cuts off his air. Because he’s not  _ gay. _ He’s not into dudes. He’s not into his best friend. He’s just… not.

And the second thing he feels is a swoop of lust, low and hot, and fuck, he definitely  _ is _ into his best friend because his hands close around the loose fabric of Trent’s t-shirt with grasping fingers, digging in hard, and when Trent lets out a small groan, it goes straight to Chuck’s dick. 

Trent bites at his lower lip, panting into his mouth, and Chuck’s sure he’s going to melt, right there, into a puddle on the carpet of the hotel room, and then Trent will have to pay the room service staff even more to clean him up. But then Trent releases him all at once, takes several steps back, and when Chuck blinks enough to clear his head, the scowl is back on his face. 

“Figure out what you want, Chuck,” Trent growls, and his voice is still rough with lust, and fuck, it does Chuck’s head in. “You’re bunking with Orange.”

There’s a knock on the door then, and Chuck’s body reacts automatically to open it. Sonny Kiss is standing on the other side, grinning at them beautifully through false lashes.

“Thanks for letting me crash, Trent,” she says. Chuck doesn’t miss the way she immediately drops her luggage, and then gives Chuck’s discarded suitcase a pointed look. “Sammy forgot he told Marko they would room together, and the hotel is full up.” 

She’s polite, but quickly makes herself at home on the bed closest to the door, and Trent immediately flips on the TV. Chuck has been summarily dismissed. Just like that.

And actually, it hurts. Like, more than it should, probably. 

_ pieces of me _

_ match the pieces of you _

_ your jagged corners _

_ fit my hard edges _

_ but i shatter easy _

_ careful with that glass, love,  _

_ you’ll cut us both _

  
  


Chuck doesn’t go to Orange’s room. He doesn’t go to anyone’s room. His brain is fucking screaming, and what he wants is to drink, to quiet it all down to a dull roar, but instead he just walks. 

He thinks for a vague moment about heading back to the shithole bar, seeing if maybe Cheyna is still around, losing himself in her willing mouth, but it would be like putting a bandaid on a shotgun wound.

_ Fuck. _ He almost wishes Trent had said no, had lied, had told him the poems were about some random chick, or just about nothing in particular, because this secret - this world altering secret - changes his perspective on literally everything. The snowglobe he’s been living in fell off the counter, and now there’s broken glass and bits of paper snow everywhere, and he doesn’t even know which way is up anymore. 

His best friend. Fuck. 

Because now Chuck can’t get the image of Trent’s face right before he kissed him out of his mind. Can’t erase the heat in his eyes, or the way he’d hovered, waiting, staring at Chuck’s mouth. 

And the kiss. Jesus. It should have been weird, kissing another man, but instead it was hot as hell, and Chuck can still feel the scrape of Trent’s teeth along his lower lip, wishes he’d grabbed onto his hair, just tugged, to see what kind of noises Trent made.

If it had been Orange, or some other dude on the roster, Chuck could have probably laughed it off, or written it off, but it’s his best friend, his tag team partner, and he can’t just let this go.

Jacksonville stinks. Like actually physically smells, down by the water, like fish took a nap in garbage and died there. He’s still got his duffle over his shoulder, trudging forward with no real destination, and no clue where he’s going. Eventually he’ll Google Maps his way back to the hotel, or get an Uber. Whatever. The city is still crawling even though it’s night, with workers and revelers, and people who look like they want to lose themselves just as much as Chuck does. 

His phone buzzes.

_ F.S.O.C: tf r u? _

_ F.S.O.C: trent said u were sleepin @ mine _

_ Chuckie T: needed air. Back eventually. _

_ F.S.O.C: fck u man, i’m tired. Better not wake me up. _

But he knows also that Orange won’t give him grief, not really, so he keeps walking. 

Would it be so bad, really? If he is attracted to Trent? If he, like, bones him, or whatever? Boning a dude doesn’t automatically make a guy gay. It is 2020. People get to choose their own labels. 

But how does he even begin that conversation? Like hey dude, turns out I do kind of want on your dick, and being with you is the greatest thing in the world, but how do we even do this? 

Like, would they  _ date _ ? Like high schoolers? Would they have to hold hands and make kissy faces at each other and shit? Would he have to buy Trent flowers and send him thoughtful text messages like his other girlfriends had wanted? Or could they just be them, do their normal thing, and also fuck each other senseless? Because honestly, option b sounds way better to Chuck, that is something he can get behind. But he also doesn’t know if that’s what Trent wants. Because Trent didn’t fucking say anything to him, just wrote all those stupid (stunning) poems in his little journal, and then kissed Chuck and kicked him out of the fucking room. 

He wants to kick the ugly trash can that had the audacity to be in his path, but also that’s a dick move, and Chuck’s brain is so exhausted he can’t really find it in him to destroy some old lady’s trash can so he slumps down onto a bench on the pier, puts his hands over his mouth, and screams.

No one is around, no one can hear his muffled, ragged voice, but it feels good to push it all out of him. The night takes his screams with no judgement, and when his throat is sore, when the hands over his mouth begin to tremble a little, he lets himself curl up on the bench, pillowing his head on his duffle.

He has to fix this.

Has to do something.

He can’t fuck this up.

The idea actually comes to him when he gets back to the room. Orange is definitely not asleep, but instead watching a nature documentary on BBC America. The AC is so high Chuck gets goosebumps when he walks in, drops his bag on the floor, but Orange doesn’t seem to feel it, he’s in his boxers, not even under the covers.

“What fucking took you so long?” he asks. There’s no accusation behind his words, just a greeting.

“Fuck you,” Chuck replies, and collapses face first onto the other bed, not bothering to take off his shoes. 

The drawer on their nightstand is half open, and the Gideons bible inside is in two pieces, which is weird, and 100% Orange’s doing, but next to it is a little notepad and a pen, stamped with the hotel’s logo. 

Shit.

He’s a genius. He’s a  _ fucking _ genius. 

_ Roses are red _

_ Violets are blue _

_ I don’t know how to write a fucking poem _

_ Or rhyme  _

_ But I love you dude _

_ And want to suck your dick _

_ And hold your hand and take you on dates _

_ And shit _

_ I’m not good with words _

_ Or imagery or whatever _

_ But I’ll be good to you. _

_ I promise. _

_ Something that rhymes with blue.  _

_ -Chuck. _

“Well that’s a fucking mess,” Orange says, reading over the words Chuck scribbled onto the paper, “and your handwriting sucks dude.”

God damnit, Chuck had actually put  _ himself _ into those words. Like, no, they weren’t great, they weren’t anywhere what Trent was writing, but he  _ meant _ them, and that had to count for something, right? 

“But Trent’s into that poetry shit, he’ll probably think it’s great.”

It’s as if something visibly let's go in Chuck’s chest. If it’s Orange approved, he’s happy. 

His plan is to read it to him. Like a fucking adult, or whatever. Read it out loud, and then take whatever happens next, and not be a total baby about it. But then he gets to the door, hears Sonny’s beautiful laugh, Trent’s deep chuckle, and he chickens out big time. So instead, he shoves the poem, folded up, slightly sweaty, under the door, and then knocks on the door and fucking bolts down the hallway. 

Elephants have made less noise than he did, but it’s fine. He manages to make it to the ice machine alcove just as the door swings open, hears Sonny say “what’s that?” 

Chuck clamps a hand over his mouth, because he’s pretty sure his breathing can be heard from the other side of the building, and waits until the door shuts again. 

When he peeks around the corner, the hallway is deserted. 

For better or worse, it’s done. 

Now, he thinks, he’s going to go get Applebees schwasted.

  
  


The Applebees connected to their hotel is a pathetic affair, despite maintaining corporate branding. The bartender,  _ Sue! _ , looks like she’d rather eat glass than serve him fruity cocktails, but he was the only customer actually seated at the bar, and the other waitress has her hands full with the very rowdy family seated on the other side of the restaurant, so she’s stuck with him.

He’s had a Peach on the Beach, a Wild Cherry Coke, and is being handed a Pink Starburst when his phone buzzes.

He ignores it.

It’s probably Trent. He really likes Trent. Like, a lot. 

And it’s very possible he’s fucked up their friendship irreparably, and will be out not only a best friend, but also a job, and that’s a whole lot to think about, and he’d much rather get better acquainted with this Pink Starburst, thanks very much. 

“You’re a pretty shit poet.”

Trent’s voice is warm in his ear, making shivers break out all along his arms, and he nearly chokes on his Starburst. 

To Chuck’s sugar-high, alcohol addled brain, Trent sitting on the stool next to him is like sunlight, punching through the clouds. Like he’s suddenly  _ there _ , the same face Chuck has smiled at a hundred million times, and yet somehow completely different, beautiful.

It scares him.

He’s willing to admit that.

It fucking terrifies him, and thrills him.

Trent slides the poem across the smudgy bar, and it soaks up a little bit of spilled Peach on the Beach. 

“Like, that’s probably the worst poem I’ve ever read.” 

Chuck wants to kiss him. Wants to wrap a hand around the back of his neck, and lick into his mouth. 

He wants to hide. 

“You couldn’t even think of something that rhymes with blue?  _ You _ rhymes with blue, dude. Did you even go to school?” 

Trent’s face is soft, the familiar lines assembled into something resembling fondness. Chuck reaches a hand out, very gently, very slowly, to press against the one Trent’s left resting on the note. Strokes his thumb along the back of Trent’s hand, hesitant, uncertain. 

How many times has he touched his hand? And yet now it feels like a privilege, like something that might be snapped away at any moment. Would it be weird to kiss his hand? He kind of wants to kiss it, to feel the callouses against his lips. 

He’s trapped in this weird, uncertain bubble and doesn’t know what to do next, except half stare at Trent, and hope the world doesn’t explode.

Trent grins at him, closes the distance between them and presses their foreheads together, lacing their fingers.

“You are such a fucking idiot,” he gets out, and then kisses Chuck, and they’re fucking  _ kissing _ , in the Jacksonville Applebees, in front of Sue! the bartender, and Chuck is so happy he’s pretty sure he is going to combust, to die right there. Or fly.

_ my hand on your heart _

_ presses out the path forward _

_ taste of your skin _

_ my salvation _

_ and in this darkness _

_ that grows around us _

_ i whisper -i love you _

_ against your mouth _

_ and you smile _

They go back up to Trent’s room. Sonny takes one look at Chuck’s bashful, reddened expression and whoops with joy, then kisses them both on the mouth and goes to bunk with Orange. 

It should feel more weird, laying in this small hotel room with Trent, limbs a-tangle above the covers, but it doesn’t. Chuck’s worried at first that he’ll be shit at it, at the kissing, at the gay stuff because he’s never fucked a dude before, but Trent’s body is already a map he’s explored. He knows all the landmarks, even if he never realized it. 

Later, as the midnight hours slip by, Trent finally lets him read everything, absorb everything. 

Chuck definitely doesn’t cry about it.

Or need to pause mid-poem to just kiss Trent until they’re both breathless. 

Or pick out at least 4 lines of poetry he wants to get inked into his skin. 

It’s 3 am before they fall asleep, finally, so drunk on each other but so fucking exhausted. 

Chuck’s poem gets tucked into the back of the notebook, folded up, and safe. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
